


Mnemosyne’s Lullaby

by Eunoia2140



Category: Doctor Who, Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-30
Updated: 2016-08-30
Packaged: 2018-08-11 23:18:57
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,860
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7911442
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Eunoia2140/pseuds/Eunoia2140
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Before his inevitable amnesia, the Doctor finds solace in an unusual visitor upon the TARDIS. Takes place immediately after the 50th.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Mnemosyne’s Lullaby

**Author's Note:**

> I saw a post somewhere about an AU in which the Doctor is able to communicate with the Moment and my interest was instantly piqued. These two are such rich characters that I’ve been wanting to write for them for a long time. (P.S. The tagging was so difficult for this, someone please save me.)

“I don’t think it’s ever been this empty,” she says. “Even the lights …” She glances at the coral struts, the main console bathing her in a golden aura. “Not as bright.”

He stares at her, hands clenched into fists at his sides. This thing— _her hair is longer, face fuller, hollow eyes instead of cheeks, rich irises fixed on him; Rose Tyler in every form, ever concept_ —focuses on him intently, waiting for any indication of an emotional response, but he guards himself as always, watching her watch him. People appearing from thin air before him is nothing new; he’s witnessed it within and outside his ship so many times it makes his head spin remembering. She’s new, though. Very new and very peculiar and very charming, and he can feel his pulse in his fingertips, nerve endings sparking at the opportunity to touch her. ( _No touch_ , he’d told her once.)

He says, “That’s a matter of opinion.”

She laughs, brilliant and beautiful and Rose, and he inhales sharply. He’s missed her.

“Hello, Doctor.” She grins over her shoulder, waves playfully before turning back to stroke the glowing console.

Accusations bubble in his throat, burn the tissues there and leave his mouth bloody, voice raw, when he speaks: “You’re not—”

“Have you ever considered,” asks the woman who may be Rose, “adding silver? Dunno, maybe it’ll look more futuristic, hm? You’re supposed to be alien, after all.”

As she reaches to grasp a lever, the Doctor opens his mouth to finish his question, but she beats him to it. “I am her.” Tactfully, candid. She is Rose. Except, she’s not.

“No,” he says, “you’re not. You can’t be.”

The air shifts and she’s behind him, suddenly, smiling that dreadful tongue-in-cheek smile, dimple appearing at the corner of her mouth. Her eyes brim with mirth, wizened amusement taking the place of childish joy. Like she’s playing a game. She leans close, fingers teasing the fabric of his suit, a presence seen, not felt—he’ll soon go mad from this, he concludes silently, wondering what would happen if he tried to grasp her tattered sleeve. Her breath ghosts his ear when she whispers “Bad Wolf” and pulls back within the same breath, still grinning.

“Rose Tyler, Bad Wolf. Synonyms, and I am simply the writer by whom they were selected. Whichever works better in your story is your decision.” Oblivious to his silence, she continues quietly, as if speaking to herself. “Wait, no, perhaps I’m mixed up. Would I be a thesaurus from which they would be found?”

“Rose Tyler,” he echoes tonelessly. “Bad Wolf.”

“Keep up, Doctor. You’re a clever boy, I know you can do better.”

“You’re it,” he says, lifting his chin, holding her gaze. “That person he was talking to. You’re the Moment.” He pauses, considering her. “Didn’t know a weapon of mass destruction could be—”

“Winsome?”

“Responsive.”

“Your people created me. I’m sentient, like all others.” The Moment glances at their surroundings. “Like your girl here. Well, your blue-box-beauty. Not me. Her.” Her unruly curls bounce when she shakes her head, and he desperately wishes she would refrain from paralleling Rose’s quirks. “Words are tricky with you immortal beings. Pasts become presents and presents become futures and futures become pasts and the entire cycle is a bit rubbish, I think.”

“Mortal,” he mutters. Carefully, he steps behind her, checking the TARDIS’s control board for an answer to the billions of questions occupying his thoughts. Much to his alarm, the screen remains blank, failing to register anything at all.

“Weapon? That’s terribly harsh,” the Moment murmurs.

Stiffly, he turns to lean against the console, crosses his arms over his chest. She’s standing so close he can see the faint smudges of dirt blending with the thick makeup around her eyes. He wants to wipe it away; he wants to gather her in his arms and keep her forever before he forgets and loses her once more. ( _No more_ , and the irony is bitter on his tongue.)

Instead he says, “How did you get here?”

Her lips press together in a tight line, blood red and older than trillions of stars. “Wrong question.”

The Doctor sighs. “No need to be stubborn.”

“It’s more fun that way,” she taunts, but it comes out rough, balancing on irritation and melancholy. “But you’re not like that anymore, are you? No more cheerful pastimes; no more fantasies. No more.” Despite her words, she dares to twist the corner of her lips at him: A challenge.

“I can feel her,” the Moment breathes, closing her eyes. The Doctor tenses the instant her palm rests against his chest, in the middle where his hearts beat furiously. If she keeps this up, something unfortunate will happen, he can sense it. (Something unfortunate is always happening to him, he knows this like he knows the faces of those he’s lost and found and lost again.) “She still breathes. She still lives and thrives.”

“Is she happy?” he asks quietly, nearly inaudible. Her hand has climbed up his jacket, enabling her fingertips to bury beneath his tie, his collar, and sink against the dip of his clavicle. “Is she safe?”

“They’re wrong about you,” she tells him. “They say the man without a home, the mysterious traveler in his box of wonder, is cold and calculating. They say he does what’s best for the universe and moves on.”

“Depends on the ‘they.’”

She ignores his quip. “But you never move on, do you? It’s all bottled up in here.” Movement, and she’s digging her fingers into the fabric above his hearts. “Loss doesn’t leave us. It stays and it festers and it becomes us.” Then, ducking her head to meet his hooded gaze, “Do you think what they say is true?”

“I think I’ve committed genocide.”

“Have you?”

“Timelines are messier than they appear. You know that. I won’t remember any of this, so indulging in relief is pointless. Naïve.”

“The Doctor is not naïve,” the Moment growls, gears clicking, cogs popping, teeth flashing bright-white in her snarl. “He is brave and ruthless and thoughtful, so thoughtful, and sentimental and he loves and loves and loves. Too much for his own good. For as high as your pedestal stands, you certainly enjoy making the same mistakes.”

“History repeats itself.” He allows himself the reverence of losing all thought in her universe-eyes. “I have a high tolerance for pain. And a fantastic capacity for death.”

She kisses him, then, something brutal and bruising and when she pulls away he trails her, intoxicated with the taste of constellations on her tongue. Golden curls wrapped tightly around his fingers, he tugs her head back, leaving sloppy kisses against her throat and nipping at the soft skin he finds there. He pulls her closer with his grip on her waist, willing away nightmares and the looming sense of paramnesia pressing into his mind.

“Incredibly so,” she gasps, knotting her fingers in his thick hair. “She’s safe and happy and misses you desperately in the middle of the night.”

Somehow he’s boosted her onto the jumpseat and has her ankles locked behind his back. He’ll have water-color marks on his throat, ones to match hers, when he reemerges from the Void but she’s yielding to his anguish and dragging her lips across the spot beneath his ear and he doesn’t quite care about logic or time anymore. The longer he can convince himself this means something special, the better.

“She has him, though,” he insists. Moans into her mouth.

Fabric shifting, seams threatening to pop open, yet no clothing is discarded. She seems to take great pride in the noises she’s extracting from him, and he still ponders the possibility of a game between them.

“Of course, yes,” the Moment says lowly. “You know how humans are. Opening themselves up for the sake of being sewn back together again. They derive pleasure from pain; they love being healed but struggle with the results.” She grasps his trembling hands with hers, weaves their fingers together like the fabric of space. “He misses you, too.”

“I miss her,” the Doctor admits, brushing his mouth over her clothed collarbone. “I had to leave them. He could give her what I couldn’t, and it _hurt_ , it hurts to remember—”

“I know,” says the Moment. She gently pulls away to look at him properly, all swollen lips and pupil-filled eyes. “Look at you, always trying to heal and getting the short stick. Irony is as omnipotent as time, Doctor.”

“I know.”

“It’s not fair.” Her eyes harden, making his stomach swoop. “You’ll forget this.”

The Doctor takes her lower lip between his. “Doesn’t matter.”

“Even the smallest things make us wiser.”

“Now you sound like a book of proverbs,” he laughs, fitting his fingers into the spacing of her vertebrae. “Or a dictionary. A magnificent dictionary, mind you, full of complex mannerisms and a plethora of insights—and quite a looker, too.”

She nuzzles his neck, sighing into his collar, creating a pleasant hum in his blood. He considers it to be a warning sign: Time is ticking, and he will never be able to alter its constant motion despite his efforts. His time to forget will be here soon.

“Please, stay,” he says, hold tightening on the being before him. “I’m alone. I’m going to die, and I’ll be blind to this.”

“I’m not a ghost,” she reminds him. “I won’t be a shadow to you, and I won’t be a replacement for her. I’m only here for as long as the gap allows, and even then I’m just a hologram.” She pauses, eyes snapping down to his lips. He acquiesces her silent request, kissing her breathless. She kisses like Rose did, too.

“Big Bad Wolf, just a hologram,” the Doctor mocks her.

“Do you have the wolf in you, Doctor? Is your bite as bad as your bark?”

He proves her words with more than a hint of arrogance. She moans. The TARDIS shudders.

She says, “Almost over. Happy now?”

“No.”

“Of course,” she snorts. “I know you better than you know you.”

“Is it the universe in your head that makes you speak nonsense?”

The Moment smoothes his hair into a less frenzied style, and he latches onto her jaw when she leans forward, fate be damned. Sometimes he allows himself to be selfish because he’s spent more time with humans than he’s willing to admit and they’ve rubbed off on him.

“Why couldn’t I see you, earlier? He—I—said something and I could sense your presence, but why couldn’t I see you?”

“Well,” she enunciates slowly, “why would I want to spoil a surprise?”

“Magician. Add that to your list of occupations.”

“Magic isn’t real.” She frowns, tilting her head.

It’s his turn to grin. “Neither are you.”

“We both know that’s not true.” Her fingers ghost over his forehead, possibilities and what ifs and conclusions being written in his skin. “I’ll always be here. She will, too.”

The Doctor steals one more kiss, something that says hello and goodbye all at once, and steps back, leaving the Moment and his memories behind.

 


End file.
